You are the one who navigates a cart full of dogs
Dogs and drinks and foodstuffs
Rolling, gliding beef and pork and complex sugars
Over a complex urban network
Today -but not the first day- you circumvent potholes
And drainless puddles that accumulate mostly during
Winter months
Yet your mind remains fixed on the types of buns, sauces,
Cole slaw and drinks that you have set out
This and every early morning
A mission of sorts that takes 40 minutes to get to your
Destination
A corner where some people still try to sell single cigarettes
Along the journey you rehearse some of your clients' first names and by their favourite
Topping or drink
Some have such accents that you strain to
Understand through the smoke and the sizzle of your
Skewer but their hand, their gesture makes everything clear
Today, a hint of tendonitis lingers in your upper left
Shoulder
You wonder but know it's from the miles of serpentine lines of
Mustard that you so expertly spread every month, every year
You know how to get the mustard to stop flowing in a snap!
Whipping up the arm all while with the right hand you crack open another
Refreshment can with the index finger
Rain or sun you sell those hot dogs it's, it's
More than just a transaction
It's a moment of awe when a
Customer sinks his teeth into a
Bun and you can almost hear
The juices howling
The dog skin cracked
Steam streams up your client's sinus the
Mustard is liberating
You chuckle then smile freeing your
Stomach that has been pressed against the cart
With your wet rag you clean it for the 100th
Time this day
Always impeccable
Always shining
Always moving
Fast like your idol, Mohammed Ali
You know you can catch the cascading sweat drop
Cascading from your forehead
Catch it with the hanky in the left hand while
The right hand is adding cabbage and returning a customer's change
With a movement that resembles that of an airborne dancer.
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